


Near's Heartache.

by OthilaOdal



Category: Death Note
Genre: Body Language, M/M, Multi, Near POV, POV First Person, Romantic Angst, Summer, Summer Love, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Meronia, teenage love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4588002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OthilaOdal/pseuds/OthilaOdal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Near's existence is white as snow. It's only fitting that the story of his heartache began in the summer, in June, the month of flowers, bees, tank tops, shorts and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Near's Heartache.

The story of my heartaches started in June - June, the month of flowers and bees and shorts and tank tops and love. It looked like love. He looked like love. He did so all the time but oh! He was a whole other kind of beauty in the summer.

Or perhaps it’s the bittersweet melancholy of the memory of that particular summer that twists my perception.

It was mid-afternoon. We were out, all of us, sitting in groups of friends cackling and laughter being carried on the wind. I was somewhere behind him, in the shade, with Linda sketching the scene furiously on her drawing board, occasionally holding up a pencil to the scene to take a quick measurement.

Some of the kids were playing football and he was surprisingly not among them. It was strangely out of character for him to be seated, by the make shift chalk lines of the pitch, in the cool grass with people he casually labelled as his friends one moment, and denied his secrets and love the next. Mello understood the charade better than I did. He tried to be friends a lot of time. He’d just been hurt so ruthlessly he couldn’t bring himself to trust. Moreover, half the time all his feelings seem to be him screaming at the top of his lungs and no one hearing him. He was exhausted, or at least he was beginning to be.

I wouldn’t label June as the month of tank tops and shorts if it wasn’t for Mello. My wardrobe, after all barely ever changed, with the exception of being in my undershirt when we were out and it was too hot to bear. But Mello was a beautiful creature of long shapely legs, bronzed skin that sparkled with sweat, fingers that blushed at the knuckles and the tips, eyes that felt like cool water in the summer heat and hair that set fire to any heart that watched it burn in the sunlight. He was a monster that wasn’t so much like a werewolf, but more like a siren.

 And in all his casual low end orphan boy summer wear, he was a strange sort of divinity.

His shorts were too short to cover his small bony underfed knees. In fact they were clearly some hand-me-down-and-then-donate-me kind of wear that Mello probably got when Wammy brought in donations for the kids. They were threadbare and torn, acid washed short jeans and I could see the skin on his thighs. The sight was so beautifully unchaste yet innocent that I was sure the lack of chastity of it had more to do with my thoughts than Mello’s physique.

He wore a tank top and it was black of course, black being the color that resonated strongest with him. Sometimes I wonder if he felt emotionally attached to the color or if he knew the effect of the strong contrast the color created, the contrast between his clothes and his skin, and the way it made his locks look like a golden crown upon his head.

Perhaps he didn’t give it as much thought as I did, but something told me he knew.

On this particular mid-afternoon, Mello had his sweaty dirty arms around his knees, and his knees pulled to his chest. And perhaps I was so lost in the invisible and visible imperfections and perfections of his….self…that I didn’t notice why he’d chosen to watch from the sidelines, until it was too late.

The ball came crashing through the pitch, for a second I thought it’d hit me and that’s when I noticed another someone who was far out of his character. Matt, outside, actually playing football, in the field.

He ran in all his red haired glory (who would’ve thought the boy could run at all?) towards the ball and stopped it just before it hit a squirming and bracing Linda.

Mello had turned to watch the redhead stop the ball. I watched the way Mello’s eyes moved from Matt’s bare dirty feet up to his face, the way a small barely noticeable smile popped up from a single corner of his peachy little mouth. If I hadn’t so intently watched Mello since the day of his arrival, I probably would’ve missed it myself.

“Sorry Lin!” Matt exclaimed before picking the ball up.

Mello’s eyes followed him as the redhead walked towards the pitch line. He glanced back down towards Matt’s legs and traced his way back up, the smile was replaced by a different look, a certain hunger, curiosity almost.

I turned my attention towards Matt, not quite understanding, at the time, why these two people were so out of place, so out of character. The answer lay in Matt’s glance. It lasted for a semi-second a quick slight shift of his jaw in Mello’s direction. My eyes shot back at Mello’s. He was watching the boy like a hawk.

“Here Matt!” The boys on the field called out from different directions shifting my attention back to the redhead. “Throw it here!”

He picked fast and threw the ball back into play. The glance he gave Mello next was definitive. He turned his head back gave Mello a little smirk and ran back into play. My eyes fell back on Mello. The sun was out. And there was a lovely small smile on his face.

It was then that I realized why they were out of character. It’s, after all, not surprising that Mello, like myself, decided to spectate the object of his infatuations.

After that it was merely a matter of observing their movements. They sat a little further from each other during meals and there were constant quick glances shared between them. Matt watched Mello quite boldly, and enjoyed it most when his group of friends was walking right behind Mello’s.

His gaze was almost unabashed while his eyes followed every little movement Mello’s body made, occasionally stealing glances at the way his hips swayed when he walked. I wasn’t sure if Mello was aware of Matt’s gaze but the way he walked seemed a tad more forceful, more alluring.

It was like watching birds in their mating dance, each of them trying to prove to the other that they were indeed beautiful enough to be loved. And they were – or at least Mello was. I never thought much of Matt. He was a scrawny boastful volatile boy that went from being obnoxiously loud to quiet as a graveyard. Sometimes his presence was impossible to miss. Other times, no one could guess he was there, save for perhaps the little blips of his gaming console. For some reason though, then, seeing him the way Mello might’ve changed the way I saw him as well. He was confident and fiery, divine monster in his own right.

When they started actually holding conversations with each other, I never knew but up until the moment that they did, everything was eyes and come-hither smirks (and the sway of Mello’s hips).

Their conversations were like their glances, quick and subtle. Mello kept expectant blue eyes glued to his green ones. Matt failed to meet his gaze most of the time, but when he did I could practically feel their hearts beat as if they were my own.

Their conversations comprised of one of them asking the other if they’d seen a mutual friend, until one day Mello invited Matt to study with him. I had to chuckle a little to myself. Matt was a good student, there was never any doubt, but his learning methods were different from Mello’s so a little get together at the library was a bit out of character for Matt. It came as a surprise when Matt said yes.

The next day there were talks about Matt and Mello being caught snogging in the library between the criminal law shelves.

It was when I started hearing about it that I truly felt like the floor had slipped from under my feet. I had been so busy watching them that I had forgotten the risk Matt had posed to – well – to my infatuations.

It was strange just watching them together, lying unabashed on the Persian carpet by the large fireplace, often rolling onto each other, perfectly comfortable. They were haptic boys. Their need for physical touch looked intense. They always seemed to have their hands on each other. And all the pristine bits of skin peeking innocently through Mello’s threadbare low end orphan boy summer wear that I only ever dared to watch from afar had soon been touched, kissed, licked and loved.

All the things I’d ever wanted to do had been done.

The siren had chosen a companion, instead of a victim, at last. And it hadn’t been me.


End file.
